“What has made him suffer?—the injury? the insult? the public shame? ridicule? Why, after having suffered, does he pardon?”
Still she was silent.
“And why does he want you? To shame me? To have his revenge? So that the world may mock me as it has mocked him? Why does he want you? To adorn his salons? To expose the jewels he has given you? To decorate his box at the theatre? Why does he want you?”
With head bowed and hands joined together on her knees, she remained silent and pale. He went towards her and forced her to rise and look at him.
“You know, Maria, why he forgets, why he pardons you, why he wants you. You know and you won’t tell me.”
She shook her head in denial.
“You know, you know; they have told you; repeat it to me! If you don’t tell me, I am going away and I am never going to return again.”
Maria trembled.
“I know,” she stammered, “I know, but I did not wish to tell. Provana says ... that my husband loves me, he forgets because he loves me; he pardons because he loves me; he wants me because he loves me. That is all.”
Violently, brutally, he took her in his arms, and pressed her to himself.